How's this,

for a choke to the throat ...

Your presence screamed, 'Trust Me'

and I believed ...

Until you fucked my soul to stone,

raping my heart to the bone

leaving guilt to be my drowning pool.

You only saw me as an easy thrall!

The sign around my neck, ...

clearly stated, No Trespassing!!!

But, you did it anyway ...

Since then,

everyday,

I stand,

in the culler doorway,

watching guilt shadows taunt me ...

Just know,

One day,

One day I WILL,

end this pain

and with my last breath

I will say ...

Let me fuck the dusty long forgotten crevices of your soul

Let me wrap my scarred legs around your war torn heart

And straddle the depths of your intellect 

Until you cum poetry and honey

I don't need a body 

A textbook diagram 

I need I crave I desire 

To melt into your very being, your absolute essence 

I will settle for nothing less 

Than everything that makes you flawed, fallible, and fantastical 

I will caress every inch of charred skin you so desperately keep hidden

I whisper this invitation 

As a sensual warning

So that the next time I say I want to fuck you

You know to strip off your inhibitions as I strip off my clothes 

Do you remember the day that teacher said those words? Do you remember her jesting tone undercut by the power of observation?

"You must be the Evil Twin."

You'd never considered yourself "Evil" before then, but after...

You believed her because you'd been the child of blame for everything, even things you didn't do, simply because you where the troubled one. You believed her and you began your decent into the pit of a living hell.

You made it standard protocol to count objects that could be used as weapons-- even in the Corner Store while you're just picking up milk for your parents.

1) King Size candy bar wrapper and packing tape... more secure suffocation seal than a plastic bag that can be ripped open by teeth...

2) Hot coffee pot...

3) Oh, look at all those cleaning supplies...

4) That plastic strip with the little tabs that hold the bags of peanuts, I bet that could be used like a Garrote...

You carried on that way for over a decade. Everywhere you went, everyday objects where seen as weapons. People where seen as targets because you let them convince you that you where born bad.

You plotted how to kill your family, you told them what order you'd do it in-- over diner. You where cruel and inconsiderate, you ignored your compassion for fear of it's pain. When you DID feel the emotional misery, you burned it out with a hot copper coil against the softside of your forearm, over twenty times in half as many years.

You put your cat down, your beloved Monkey who gave you unconditional love for sixteen years, (regardless of what you tell others, it was) all because you didn't think you had any love left to give her...

You where wrong.

You may have given into the darkness.. but you where never evil. Just like the world was never actually flat, it was always round, despite the perception of the world once.

Never forget that.

|| another_proser ||

{AUTHORS NOTE: I share this bit of personal darkness both as a reminder to myself and a shared experience for those who might need it themselves.}

Stop acting like you care!

I know you don't!

And you never will!

The worst part is!-

It isn't even your fault!

It's No One's fault!

And only He will reap the pain!

Pain I so DES-PER-ATE-LY

Want to inflict upon you!

Oh... Yeah.

KEEP SCREAMING!

I DARE YOU!

I dare you because

It'll only

PROVE to me!

You DON'T CARE!

Ha.

You don't care.

Do I care?

...What?

Why am I STILL TALKING?!

I am INSANE

For RE-PEAT-ED-LY

Talking about things 

You will never care about!

All these THINGS that will

Alllllllwwwwwwaaaaaayyyyyyyssssss

CARE!

And will NEVER forget!

To hurt me...

He grabbed her by silvery throat

Hurled her across crimson room

body slithering down wounded wall

blooming red puddle underneath

blood seeping through floor boards

condo below, maroon drips on my head

gory awareness, I wipe blood from my hands

staining the sheets with sanguine anguish

glance up to grasp source of silent blood

dead air makes no noise but shhh

I hear fired footsteps absconding

cold feet freeze me in cowardice

turn out light, go back to delusional bed

cover my head pretending didn’t happen

splattered soul mottled and besmirched.

I stub out my cigarette as she walked through my door. Bad habits are hard to break and this one I’ve tried to break dozens of times. I had an easier time breaking myself from my occasional weakness of a beautiful woman than the lure of cheap tobacco. A friend of mine tried to get me to give those bloody e-cigs a go but I missed the smoke caressing me and slightly choking me from the inside. I wish I took one more drag before this woman walked through my door and entered my life. It was one of those weeks where that final drag may have made a difference.

She was fairly nondescript, she would fade into a crowded room almost like a chameleon. She was not quite beautiful and definitely didn’t fall into the type of beautiful I had a weakness for. She was not quite a Plain Jane either, per se, for there was...something about her. She definitely was the type that seemed to find trouble anywhere she went to. I was glad I was smoking, because this type of client always led me to take up smoking after times I have quit, because their trouble usually turns into my trouble. That said, as nondescript as she was at first glance, she demanded your attention if you were unfortunate enough to be alone with her, which in this moment, I was.

I was drawn in by her crimson lips - that didn’t seem to be painted - as she said, “Hello, Mr. Barnaby. I have a job that requires your unique skills.”

I was drawn by her crimson lips as she took my terminated cigarette into those soft lips, and relit the bloody thing; taking a nice, long drag off of it and holding the seductive smoke forever in her lungs before exhaling it back into the room. The room seemed to fill with more smoke than her tiny lungs could have ever held. The smoke seemed sweeter than anything I could ever suck out of the cheap cigarettes. The reaction I had to the second-hand smoke was stronger than I ever got from the cheap cigarettes as well. An intriguing potential client. A dangerous one as well.

I was drawn by her crimson lips, as she proposed her need. She passed me an aged photo of a locket that was stolen from her. She passed me an envelope filled with cash as a deposit for my services. It was filled with more cash than I typically charge for even the toughest of assignments.

“I would prefer if you didn’t have to...kill him to get it back,” her crimson lips purred in an overtly seductive undertone.

“I am an acquirer, Miss. I am not in the practice of taking the lives of others. I will either acquire your locket fairly peacefully, or I will give you your money back if it is impossible to do so.”

“I understand,” her crimson lips whispered sadly, notes of my probable failure lingering. She took another puff from the cigarette. “He will not give it up easily. Perhaps the locket is lost forever to me. If the best cannot get it back, who can?”

I handed her envelope back to her, “Miss, there are others in the acquisition business that while not as good at is as me, do happen to have grayer scruples when it comes to the taking of life.”

“No!” her crimson lips purred, in a way it sounded almost like the ‘n’ wasn’t part of it. Her hand slipped over mine like silk, pushing the envelope it held back toward my body. Her touch sent a jolt of pleasure through me while at the same time my hackles rose more than they ever had. A very dangerous woman. A woman that can blend into a crowd, yet almost always gets her way.

“...Please…,” she whispered through those crimson lips that seemed to be more seductive by the second, “...at least try. Even if you cannot acquire it back for me, the money is yours.” Her crimson lips formed into a needy smile, the type a child gives their father wanting a sweet from the store. If it weren’t for my hackles telling me to pass on this job, I would have believed that smile was utterly sincere.

Against my better judgement, I took the case. I asked her for a lock of her hair, for such a link is required for my form of acquisition, and she offered her mane to me so I could cut off a piece. Her hair was smoother than silk. The kind of hair you want to let your hands to get tangled in while kissing a beautiful woman. Her crimson lips seemed to almost purse such an invitation.

“...if only you can get my beloved locket for me. I would be eternally grateful.”

Words I heard from those lips, well after she was gone. I felt her loss of presence that strongly. She dominated the room while she stood in it, without seeming to be dominating at all. I lit another cigarette and drew the longest drag I ever had in my life while thumbing the lock of hair in my hand, an image, a direction, and a distance of the locket forming in my soul. I knew down to my core that there wasn’t enough money in the world to take on a job like this. I knew she wasn’t quite as she seemed. I knew I should just tell her that I tried and failed and walk away; ahead with the cash she gave me. More money than I would have gotten from my next twenty jobs over. But, my pride wouldn’t allow it. Once I take a job, I see it through. I only failed twice, and both of those times the failure only happened because it would have required me to kill in order to succeed in the acquisition at hand.

I took a final drag and walked out my door, feeling the weight of my concealed Glock that I always carried just in case; knowing I very well might be walking into a situation where I will have to hold the bloody thing again.

***

I paid the room service guy ten-grand to take a break from delivering to this one particular room. More than likely, the room service guy might very well get fired for the act. But, the ten-grand he just earned will be more than he would make in a few months of delivering food to the well-to-do patrons of this establishment.

“Room Service,” I said with a smile. As soon as the door opened, I slammed the cart inside, running over the patron and closing the door behind us.

“What the Hell…”

“I believe you have something that doesn’t belong to you.” I tell him, in a voice that comes off as gravel being pulverized. The robed idiot was actually wearing the heart-shaped locket around his neck. His hand went right to it, clenching it.

“No! She gave it to me! She wants me to have it. A token of...”

“Well, my friend. She wants it back now. We can make this incredibly easy…”, I toss him an envelope with another ten-grand in it. “...surely the cash is…”

“No! You don’t understand. You cannot understand. She would never give it to me just to take it away. She is not that cruel…”

I thought about my earlier hackles just then, and thought for a brief moment, thought perhaps she was that cruel. That perhaps this was just some twisted mindgame. I was looking at this well-to-do guy. You could tell by the quality of the room and the quality of his possessions within it that he was a successful man, albeit a dishonest one.

“Just take off the locket, hand it over, and go ahead and buy yourself dozens of lockets just like it with the cash I just gave you.”

“No! There is nothing like this…” He looked like he was high on something. Perhaps he was high on everything. “...Just look. It is a sign of her undying love to me…”

He opened the locket and there was a picture of my client on one side and this guy on the other.

“Are you her husband, boyfriend, lover?”

“I am just hers. and she is MINE!”

He launched at me then, getting tripped up with the service cart in the way of me. Still, he had an almost feral strength to his determination. His determination reminded me of a few meth-heads I have come across in my day, even though everything else about his demeanor seemed to scream something else. I slammed the service tray against his head then kicked his head hard once he was down. He was out cold, but his pulse was racing strong.

I unclasped the locket from his neck and put it in one of the hidden pockets of my coat. I picked up the envelope. I would have let him keep all of the cash if he was well behaved. Still, a part of me felt sorry for the guy. Not that it looked like he needed it, looking at the opulent belongings in the room, I pulled a grand from the envelope and left it on the the table.

I wish I left the room just then. I was close to. It would have been easy. It was the path of least resistance. But the locket weighed at my coat like it was made out of uranium. Not only insanely heavy, but dangerous to possess. My hackles kept me in the room. I needed answers to what all of this was about. Things were not as they seemed. This wasn’t a simple acquisition of a heirloom or some other babble that was only priceless to their owner. There was something off-balanced in the air. With her. With him. With this entire job.

I dragged the guy to his bed and checked the room for any hidden weapons. I found two guns. I went out on the balcony and tossed the magazines from each over to a neighboring balcony and then went back inside and dumped the guns themselves into the tank of the toilet in the bathroom. Last thing I want is someone finding one of these maker’s of death and using them in a crime of passion. For good measure I dumped his cell phone in there as well.

Waiting for the guy to wake-up, I helped myself to the dinner he ordered for and tried to puzzle out what I knew.

A nondescript woman, save for her crimson lips, wanted a nondescript, almost cheaply made locket back from a semi-successful thug of a miscreant. The brass, heart-shaped locket contained pictures of the two of them. My client gave me an insane amount of money to get it back. The man is found wearing it; treating it like his most prized possession; seeming convinced it was a gift given freely. None of it fit.

The robed man began to stir. I took another bite of the filet mignon he ordered. It was the best meal I’ve had in quite some time.

“What the hell are you doing?”, was what he uttered seeing me eating his dinner, still in his room. Then, in a more desperate tone as he clutched at his naked neck, “WHERE IS IT?! You need to give it back! Please! I’ll give you anything. I will do...anything.”

Watching his eyes, they were of a frantic sort, like an animal cornered with no way out and has no fight left.

“Why?”, I simply asked, “What is the significance of the locket? It seems like a cheap piece of crap to me…”

“Please…”

“Just answer the question and I may reconsider the situation. I need to know what is going on here, damn my curiosity anyway…”

He started to cry. “You will never understand. I barely understand. Please, just give it back. I can make your world hell. I have people that will destroy you for me.”

“Too bad none of them are here to destroy me right now, for you will never have another chance to. I am serious. Give me a good reason to give it back to you, and I may just do so.”

Perhaps he knew I was too honorable to go back on a job, once I took it. Perhaps he was too high on God knows what to rattle any sense from his mind. But, he never answered. Instead, he got off the bed, and I fingered the Glock inside my coat. I had a rule against killing men, but I was a good shot and wasn’t against blowing a hole into their shoulder as a warning.

He didn’t approach me though, he went to the balcony instead.

“You will never understand what it meant to me. What she meant to me. I would have done anything for her. Just as I would have done anything for you to get it back. If she truly doesn’t love me anymore…”

With that, he tossed himself over the balcony. As easily as if he was falling into a swimming pool. Unfortunately for him, a swimming pool wasn’t there to catch his fall. The crunch his body made at the end of it’s fall prompted me clearly that it was time to go.

My only thoughts as I got to my car and drove away were of the Room Service Guy definitely needing to find a new job once the shit storm came down and the seemingly simple locket in my pocket that caused a successful mid-level-mafia-type to kill himself.

***

Three days passed before she called me and asked if I had her locket. I told her I did. She wept happily hearing the news.

“I would have sworn he was so possessive of the locket that he would not have let it go without having to kill him.”

“Actually, once I took it away from him, he threw himself from the balcony.”

“He was disturbed, that way…”, she sounded infinitely sad. “Can you bring me the locket and I can pay you the rest of the job’s cost.”

I thought to myself that even though I was out 11 G’s, I was still way ahead on this job, not counting that a crazy idiot tossed himself off a balcony. “I can. Where do you want to meet?”

***

The manse was a few square hundred feet short of being a full-blown mansion. She obviously had money just to throw away. She threw a bunch away at me and was about to throw a bunch more.

A maid, perhaps the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen, led me to a receiving room. The only thing odd about her was her eyes seemed a bit distant. Still, she left me wishing she would have stayed while I waited. She was the type of woman that was hard to forget once you see her. She was the type of woman I had a weakness for. She was the type of woman that could, and did, arouse me just on sight.

I fantasized about what it would be like to embrace such a woman, to taste her lips against mine, when my client entered the room. Her crimson lips in a full smile. Her eyes surveyed my state, her smile deepened.

“Hello, Mr. Barnaby. You honor me. The locket…”

“Before I hand it over, I am curious. Why do you want it so bad? Why was he so unwilling to part with it? That is, if you do not mind the question.”

“Not at all,” her crimson lips purred. “It was a gift to me from my grandmother. As for him. It was a foolish love affair. He took it from me, because what do you take from someone as rich as me? What do you take from someone you want to possess, someone that has everything? You take the one thing that you cannot put a price on.”

I nodded. It was an answer, but not a full one. She handed me another envelope loaded with cash and I stood and took out the locket, handing it to her. She almost wept for joy holding it in her hand again.

“Oh thank you, Mr. Barnaby! you have no idea just how much it means to me to have it back.”

Before I could react, she leaped at me and kissed me. A hard, longing kiss. A kiss you don’t forget. A kiss that did make me forget about her beautiful maid though, a woman that was infinitely more descript than the one kissing me now, my client’s crimson lips notwithstanding. A kiss that gave me the urge to let my fingers get lost in her smoother-than-silk hair. A kiss that led her wrapping her arms around my neck.

A lifetime later, the kiss ended she parted. I visibly panted. I could not recall the last time a woman left me panting from just a kiss. I felt dizzy. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought I was drugged.

I looked at my client with her crimson lips. Suddenly she seemed to be very descript. I noticed the perfection of her face. I noticed the lustful fire in her eyes. I noticed the endless curves of her form. I noticed her hands empty. I suddenly was aware of a cool chain biting into my neck. I reached up and felt the locket hanging from it. As I touched it she sighed almost as if I slipped my hand up her dress. I noticed that not only did she stir me with desire, but the desire was something I just could not ignore.

The next moment I had her in my arms again, she was wanton and willing.

“Take me, have me. My Barnaby…”

It felt like a yearning invitation, it rattled in my mind as a desired command. We tore at each other’s clothes not caring as they ripped, they were mere obstacles in the way.

I never coupled with a woman as quickly. I’ve never been as desperate at hearing the word, “Deeper!” Over, and over, and over again.

Animals did not mate as basely as we did. Still it wasn’t enough, I kept on needing more, she kept on begging for more. I was barely aware of how the brass locket burned at my skin every time it touched. All that existed was her.

***

I woke naked in silk sheets, as if from a dream. My thoughts my own for that brief moment, before I felt her trace her finger on my chest. I could feel the finger draw the outline of a heart, as if branding a rune into my flesh. My body responded, wanting her, mindlessly having to have her. I wanted her again. I needed her again. I was so physically tired from our seemingly endless affair earlier, yet if I didn’t have her again soon, I was sure I would lose my mind.

“My dear Barnaby. My dearest love. I need you. But, more than that, I need you to do a job for me.”

Those crimson lips laughed sweetly then. A small part of my mind, cowering in the corner and clinging to remembered sanity, was screaming that the laugh was not sweet, but wicked, a lie. The rest of me ignored the buzz of that noise of that small part of me. I touched the locket and felt her love flow into me deeper. She had a job for me. She had a desperate need for me! And she would love me all the more if I did it.

“Unfortunately though, it might require you to kill someone in the end.”

I don’t kill I thought to myself. But for her, for my love, I might have to make an exception. The ends would probably justify the means. She would never ask me to do something like this if there was no other way.

She took me again, before I could even answer. My body sang as she washed me in her lusts and desires. I knew I would only kill if it was the last result, justifying it to myself. A small voice in my head screamed that I was in a trap, the locket was the trap. Get rid of it. Get rid of it now before it is too late. I touched the locket as she rode me. Her love flooded me just as her lust pounded me. I caressed the locket wanting to feel both of the feelings. Her love and her lust, mine only to indulge in.

I knew in the depth of my heart, the locket now contained a picture of myself and her, my crimson-lipped love tucked inside. Bound together forever. I knew it even as I heard the small voice inside my head slip away in silence. Slip away to the need of receiving her love, her lust, and her need of me to do another job for her.

I understood everything 

his footsteps were saying.

His hand touching the knob

smelled so familiar to me --

that unmistakable scent 

of his wrist's deliberate twist.

I couldn't bear the sight 

of his decision, 

eventually tearing my gaze

from the weight of his departure.

But it was the taste of what 

he didn't say that would 

linger on the tip

of my tongue, teasing me

before getting stuck

in the back of my throat, 

where everything 

he never promised me 

was lodged.

Anne smiled contentedly to herself, and leaned against the cool, plastered-covered wall. She put her hand to the spot where Henry had kissed her so gently. She could still feel her skin tingling where the course, curling hairs of his beard had scratched against it. She did not feel happy, not in the ways she once had, but she could not deny the elation the sense of power was bringing to her. It was not love or happiness, no, but it was some kind of strange surge of life she had not felt in many years. She giggled into the darkness.

A sudden footstep in the dark startled her, and Anne turned around sharply, expecting to find her self eye to eye with her brother George or some other drunk and stumbling courtier. Anne’s shoulders slumped gently in relief when she saw the shape of Wyatt walking slowly towards her.

“Oh, Wyatt,” she said relievedly, “you startled me.” She closed her eyes and shook her head amusedly. “I’m glad that it is only you.

He stared at her oddly, but didn’t speak, stopping only a few steps away from her. She pulled herself up and made her face more stern. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Lady Anne.” He said it playfully, but his voice was cold, emotionless. Anne looked at him quizzically. He was drunk, she realised, smelling the sharp scents of wine and ale rolling off his disheveled doublet. He had just left the banquet, no doubt, after a long night of drinking and gambling away his little fortune. She frowned at him, but did not move. His face was strange.

“I see you are drunk, Mr. Wyatt,” she said sourly. “Have you just left the hall at long last?”

He shook his head slowly, but continued to look at her in a strange way. A feeling of unease washed over Anne. Her heart began to race suddenly, and her ears and eyes craned for a sign of anyone else in the corridor. Henry’s footsteps were long gone, and the corridor was empty now save for the two of them. Anne took a step backwards, away from the drunken courtier.

“I’m going to retire for the evening,” she said suddenly, her voice wavering beneath the anxiety she suddenly felt. “Good night, Mr. Wyatt.”

“Tom,” he croaked suddenly as she turned to walk away. His voice startled her, and she stopped, turning to face him. “You used to call me Tom,” he said slowly, taking a step forward towards her. Anne’s heart was beating louder now, but her eyes were stuck upon him. Inside, something screamed at her to flee, but it was as if she was suddenly frozen to the floor by some cold, paralyzing fear. Wyatt took another step towards her, a dark shadow falling over his face.

“You used to call me Tom,” he said again. Something in his voice caught her off guard, and she was snapped from her reverie, she turned and made to run from him, but he lunged quickly grabbed her roughly by the wrist. Anne screamed out in pain and shock, but her voice echoed hollowly down the empty corridor. Wyatt spun her around to face him and pulled her tightly into him, pressing her body flush against his own.

“You used to call me Tom.” He said again, this time with rage. She could smell the cloud of wine rolling off of his breath, sticky and wet. She felt his lips upon her neck suddenly, sucking and licking her skin.

"NO," Anne screamed, "Tom, NO!"

He remembered himself suddenly, and shoved her violently in to the wall, knocking the air out of her. She could feel the tiny bones of her back digging into the hard, cold plaster. A large hand came up and covered her mouth, while the other went around her throat, holding her to the wall.

"Shh," he whispered to her. His eyes were wild with desire. Anne began to cry against the soft skin of his palm. She screamed again, but it come out muffled, quiet. She flailed against him, but as she struggled, his hand tightetend at her throat. Blackness began to fill her vision on all sides.

"I did everything for you," he whispered drunkenly into her ear. "I loved you, and sent you little gifts. Wrote you little poems. Yet you could never give yourself to me. Not to me. But him? Because he is the king? Because he is rich? I am not king, but I am rich too. I come from a family better than yours! I am handsome. I am young. But it is not me. It is him -- it is always him. You do not love, him. That is plain for anyone to see. But you do not love me either. And for what reason? I have given you no reason to be so mean with me. And he has given you every single one!”

Tears were coming to his eyes now, and she heard his voice breaking beneath his emotion. She could feel the pressure growing in her head, her blood roaring and her heart pounding in her ears. Anne could feel her eyes go large and round, pleading with him to let her go, to let her catch her breath. Wyatt stared at her now, his big brown eyes brimming with frenzied drunken tears. Anne knew she would lose consciousness soon if he did not free her. She tried desperately to look wildly from side to side, to find someone, anyone, but he held her fast.

“You are not better than the rest of them,” Wyatt spat at her his voice becoming venomous. “You are just as reaching, as grabbing, as wicked as the rest. You spend your days groveling on your knees and your nights groveling on your back. Just like your sister did. Just like you all do!”

He released her throat then, but held her fast by the mouth, muffling her screams. His hand began to wonder down her body as he spoke, his eyes never leaving her face. Anne felt him lift the heavy hem of her gown and dig beneath it wildly. His tears were gone now, burned away by the mounting desire in him. He pressed himself against her as his free hand wondered to the tops of her thighs. Anne choked out a scream as his fingers entered her, but his hand covered her mouth still. She began to sob hysterically, her tears pouring over his hand.

“Is this what you let him do to you?” Wyatt whispered into her ear. “Is this what all the fuss is about?” His hand left her secret place, and she heard him fumble drunkenly for the laces of his breeches. His gaze left her for only a moment as he looked away for the laces and Anne took the opportunity.

In a sudden blinding surge of desperation and strength she shoved Wyatt away from her as hard as she could. The wine heavy upon him, he stumbled drunkenly away from her and began to fall backwards, pulling her down on top of him. Free from his muffling hand now, Anne began to scream wildly, determined to bring running any servant, courtier or guard who might be still awake nearby. Wyatt struggled frantically to silence her but Anne was wild with a sudden ferocious rage.

Wyatt rolled over the top of her and pinned her to the floor, his hands wrapping around her throat. Anne could feel him squeezing the life out of her. Her hands flew to his face and she sunk her nails into the soft flesh of his face. He screamed in pain as long lines of oozing red blood began to drip down his face. Anne thought he would release her then, but his face flew down at her own instead, and he forced his mouth over the top of her own. His tongue forced its way through her screaming lips. Without hesitation Anne bit down as hard as she could upon his lip. She tasted the hot coppery surge as the blood from his lip filled her mouth. Finally, he released her, and pulled himself violently away from her, pressing himself against the wall. He swayed gently and stared at her with a hatred she had never seen before.

"I know what you're doing," he screamed at her, his hand covering the place on his face where she had clawed him viciously. “I know what game you play, Anne.” He spat suddenly on the floor and she saw the red streak blood come away from where she had bitten him. “You Boleyn whores are all alike.”

A fury roared suddenly inside of Anne and replaced the panicked fear she had felt only moments ago. She rose slowly, trembling all over. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, but she was filled with a sudden monstrous energy. She wanted to rush at him, strike him down, kill him. Silence still surrounded them all around.

“You will watch your tongue,” she snarled at him, much more bravely than she felt. “I will have you killed for this!” Her voice was a shrill scream now, her fists clenched tightly into balls. She could feel the cool air glance her shoulder where he had ripped her gown away. They stared at each other in silence, before he turned and retreated slowly into the darkness. Anne stood staring at the spot he left behind, her shoulders heaving and her breath coming ragged and fast. She heard the loud footsteps of an approaching guard behind her.

Too little, too late, she thought sadly. The damage has been done.

As Wyatt melted away into the darkness, Anne sank to ground and covered her face, dissolving into tears. She was unable to comprehend what had just transpired. 

When the guards found her finally, they lifted her tiny, sobbing figure gently and carried her to the king. 

Darkness. I fall to the floor, letting out a whimper in my anguish. I open my eyes to see him standing above me, smiling as he always does, and wanting to take it further. "NO!" I screamed, but no words came out of me. Shaking, I tried to stand. But all I could do was fall, fall, falling. His expression dropped, he stood there angrily staring at me. Clenching his teeth he shouted, "You little bitch! You're trying to get away again aren't you!" He pushed me down further, climbing onto me, "You're going to enjoy this! You love it! You love me!" He grinned again. Tearing up, I tried to swallow, but my dry throat would allow me nothing but further suffering. Why does he have to be this way? Why must we do this again? His sickening grin fell into a scowl as we heard someone banging on the door upstairs. "Don't move a muscle." he told me sternly, walking up the stairs. He opened the door and immediatly hear him shouting and being shouted at. Terrified even more, I try my hardest to crawl into the dusty corner of my dark, bloody basement. His voice fades away, still screaming, as I hear a good three men hurry down the stairs. They're policemen they tell me, "We'll make you safe. You're gonna be okay now." But I'm not gonna be okay. I never am. No matter where they take me, he'll just find me again...

Crackerjack parted the strands of beads strung across the doorway.

Same wisps of strawberry incense. Same black velvet murals, New York and Paris skylines, painted in deep, setting sun oranges and Crayola blues.

Same old Reefer, chillin’ in his boxers and silk bathrobe, a knit Rasta hat skewed sideways over his shoulder length dreads. Pump action shotty on his lap.

Reefer’s “office” was in front of his recliner. What you saw was what he sold. His merchandise was neatly displayed inside a glass-topped coffee table that also functioned as Reefer’s footstool.

Reefer blew a chain of smoke o-rings out of his mouth. “Look who’s back. Crackerjack Jones. Sup, Crack?”

Crackerjack jammed his balled fists into his hoodie’s pockets and sat down on the sofa, unsure where to begin.

The beginning seemed as good a place as any.

“He had a gun, Reef.”

“Everbody and they ho packs party favors with rounds in the chamber. You know that.” 

“Said you owed ’em money. Said you’d reneged. Mackie-“

“Mackie run when he should’ve ducked. Mackie wasn’t smart. Now Mackie dead.”

“I died too, Reef...for three minutes. ’Least that’s what the docs told my Pop.”

“I heard. Three minutes...Now that’s some serious shit, but it ain’t miraculous shit. You want some real mind blowin’, Jesus Hallelujah shit, wake up in a morgue, two hours after your ass is pronounced dead.”

Reefer set his blunt on the lip of an ashtray, popped the lid on a tin, reached inside, and pulled out a handful of shotgun shells. “Don’t you worry ‘bout what happened. A whole lotta brothers is lookin’ for that fool’s trigger happy, sorry ass. Motherfucker better be fuckin’ Casper, best know how to vanish if he wants to keep his hide. We gonna put a cherry on some ice cream. I promise you that.”

Reefer knew as much about thuggin’ as he did about death. He always talked mad smack about payback. Earning respect. Gettin’ revenge. He also bragged about ghosting “The Other Side”. Shot seven times, he’d died four. Or, was it six? The number varied, depending on which member of Reefer’s crew was asked.

“Anything fucked up ever happen after you died, Reef?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” Crackerjack said.

“What you mean by ‘fucked up’.”

“Fucked up shit happenin’ when...after you come back?”

“You tryin’ to say you been to the beach, Crack.”

“I ain’t never left The Loop.”

“Sho did, for three minutes.”

“C’mon, Reef. Stop being all Gandalf and shit. Just answer the question.”

“Look, it ain’t hard to comprehend.” Reefer set the butt of the shotgun’s stock on his thigh and grabbed a shell. “See, sometimes dyin’ is like goin’ to the beach.” He pushed the shell up and past the shotgun’s loading flap until there was a click, and then reached for another shell. “And beaches is made of sand, and sand, well, it looks all the same, except it ain’t. Each grain is different, jus’ like snowflakes. You jus’ can’t tell ’cause it’s all microscopic and shit.”

“I didn’t see any beaches, Reef, but something ain’t right. I been seein’ other shit. I get this tingly feeling when I’m near-“

“Motherfucker goes to the beach and comes back motherfuckin’ Spiderman.”

“When I walk past folks, stand next to ’em, bump shoulders on the subway, fucked up shit flashes inside my head. I see ’em older, younger, dyi-”

“You know the worst thing about going to the beach, Crack?”

“Man, I told you, I ain’t never left-“

“The worst thing ‘bout going to the beach happens when you leave. See, that sand gets all attached, finds crevices...Places to hide. Bad thing is though, it ain’t supposed to leave with you. Them grains is supposed to stay behind. Jus’ like you and me.”

“Stop messin’. I’m bein’ serious. I ain’t slept in days. Whadda I do?”

“I ain’t playin’. What you seein’ is some real Star Trek, time glimpse shit. Folks’ future, past, present, all rolled into one freaky, mind-fuck blunt. I know because I seen it too.” Reefer racked the shotgun’s slide. “We ain’t supposed to be here, and there’s only one thing you can do to try and set shit right. Take the grains back.”

“How, Reef?”

Reefer aimed the shotgun at Crackerjack. “Ya gots to die to get to the beach.”

Crackerjack bolted to his feet. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. Stay, run, death was certain either way. Pussy out? Sac up, take the bullet like a man? Dying the first time hadn’t been so bad, just like going to sleep. Reefer never’d lied. His opinions were Gospel truth.

“You ready, Crack?”

Crackerjack squeezed his eyelids closed. “Whadda I do if this don’t work?”

Reefer pulled the trigger. “Keep tryin’ till it do.”